


Fragile Bones

by Wallissa



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: (i can't believe that's a tag), Credence Barebone Crying During Sex, Credence Barebone Needs a Hug, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gellert Grindelwald Being Creepy, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Light Bondage, M/M, Manipulative Gellert Grindelwald, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-25 23:49:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14389689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wallissa/pseuds/Wallissa
Summary: Grindelwald enjoys the paradoxes he can force Credence into, the thought of snapping thin white bones between his teeth.(A mix of white hands in black hair, black grease on white sheets and red-rimmed eyes)





	Fragile Bones

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in late 2016 and just randomly remembered it today, deciding to post it on a whim.  
> Grindelwald is a terrible guy but this was fun to write. I feel bad for Credence.

White linens and white lies and silver linings, dark suits and harsh truths and black clouds.

He has a fistful of that uneven haircut, pulls until the boy has to arch back, yield to him and bow his back. Neck vulnerable and he wishes he could press the tip of his wand against that fluttering pulse.

Instead he uses his free hand to draw a line down that back, free of scars so far. The boy’s wrists are raw though, hurting as he didn’t heal them yet. It wasn’t a priority today, not for him anyways. Not when Credence had willingly followed him into the lion’s den, had so sweetly stripped by the door so he could now strip him down to his bare bones. Later, he’d lick those wrists, kiss them, taste the copper. The memory of that taste on his tongue gets him back on track and he pulls his hand away from where his nails were digging bloody crescents into the skin stretched thin over a hipbone. Instead he reaches for his belt and it’s his favourite part, better than the first push, better than to mark and fill him - the way the boy shivers violently when he hears the buckle of his belt clink, the almost wet sound as he pulls it from it’s hoops that has the boy claw at the sheets. 

What to do now? Drop it next to the boy, usually, where he sees, has to see when he’s pushed down, held there so he won’t take his eyes off the worn leather as he moans and whimpers and cries. With pleasure, Credence, for now.

But not tonight. Tonight he allows himself a special treat so he pulls that dark hair, pulls until the shivering mess has to get on his knees, bare skin pressed against his suit. Almost a yank, not quite, just another loving pull to get the boy to bare his neck, tilt his head almost willingly. Always so eager to please. He latches on like he wants to eat him – and oh, he does, tear him up and swallow him whole and taste his tears. The only way he can put his own marks of red on him for now and a distraction that has the boy moaning. Sweet little sounds as he runs a hand down that skinny arm until he reaches the old silver scars, the fresh red streaks. Here he pulls the boy’s wrists together, makes sure the raw skin touches and oh, sweet Credence is twitching, but doesn’t pull back. 

Would never.

Not even when he gets the belt and wraps it loosely around those red-white wrists, loosely, yet still a harsh contrast of dark and light and pain and the need to please and the boy’s crying, isn’t he? Shaking with the force of his sobs and he has to kiss it better, whisper soft words stretched thin as a sheep’s pelt over a wolf’s fur as the boy calms down, until those harsh sobs are sweet whimpers and ah, soft again, but that’s not a problem.

He’s always preferred the boy soft anyways. Pliant, aching for a gentle touch, a warm hand.  
And he’d never deny the boy what he wants.

So he gets his hand wet and cold and wraps it around that vulnerable hot skin and presses close until his suit will leave burning scratches on him. Lets the boy have a little sweetness, but never without the hidden cruelty that will give himself pleasure. A bed of roses for that sweet deer, full of thorns. 

Credence, so trusting, let’s his head fall back against his shoulder. Mouth open, red, eyes raw, red, wrists sore, red, everything is red. Like cherries, raspberries, blood on snow and he wants to devour him, so he stops pulling so he can push. 

The boy is quivering like strings on a harp and he’ll play him, steal the most beautiful sounds for himself. Two fingers and it’s not nearly enough for a soft, broken boy like this, but it’s enough for a beast like him, a liar, a thief, so he pulls away and pushes in, hand wrapped firmly around that hot flesh so he can feel him twitch. Pain is pleasure now. 

Hands always cold and yet the boy is so hot inside, so heavenly hot that he needs a distraction. Pleasure is pain now. His hand is wet with slick and the boy’s eagerness and he reaches for those lovely, shaking wrists again, the belt, pulling and smearing his ownership over those marks. He can’t put them there, but he can make them his. As if the boy isn’t already. Dear Credence.

He watches the pearly drops cling to sore skin and his hunger won’t be denied anymore. So he pushes the boy down, then pulls him back by the hair, watches himself form those bare bones into a lovely paradox. And it’s subconsciously, how he never lets him go, hand always in his hair, gripping him tightly. Sometimes he thinks that the beast in him will never let the boy go. His claws sank too deep into that loving flesh, that pale trust. 

_Credence_ , he whispers, _I’ll tear you apart_ , he thinks, and it makes him smile how it’s the same thing. And Credence moans, arches up for him and takes those thrusts that could break his back. 

It’s hard, hard to hold back when he’s so hard when the boy is so soft and takes it all. Takes it with his mouth open, soft tongue and soft moans spilling like drool. Oh, and the boy is so wet, his chin, his cheeks, inside and out. A quivering mess while he can see his reflection in his cufflinks. His gleaming shoes are smearing the sheets with grease, black on white. 

A tilt of his hips and oh, did he find it? 

He found it, he has it now, the boy is crying again, eyelashes wet, hands shaking as he tries to grab at the sheets, back bowing like a wave ready to crash.  
It’s lovely, the mess he made. 

Hard, he’s pushing too hard, but he always has, the boy always took everything, he can’t stop now, it’s too good. Too sweet, too hot, too raw. Filling him with anticipation, like sliding the key into the lock of Pandora’s box, waiting for all those truths to spill out. 

_I love you, Credence,_ he whispers and makes those secrets spill, makes the boy sob with the force of it and _yes_ , he thinks, _I love your credence and I’ll take my love and wrap it around that long, pale neck and pull until you have nothing left to give._

So he let’s go for now, crushing the boy down and pushing three fingers in a wet hot mouth and finally letting go, filling him up with his lies and his greed and his pleasure.  
Credence, isn’t it? Credence and bare, fragile bones.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading! If you liked it, consider leaving kudos or even a comment, you have no idea how much those mean to me! :)  
> Also: The whole idea that Grindelwald's name isn't mentioned came to me because I feel like it's hard to untangle the mess of secrets and layers of his person. So I don't know wether that creature fucking Credence through the bedding is truly Grindelwald, since he still wears the mask of Graves? Idk. I'm also not sure how I feel about it, re-reading that one year later. Is it too messy, since no names are mentioned? HMU and tell me your thoughts <3  
> Have a wonderful day!


End file.
